


First Order Market Research Welcomes Your Participation

by GenerallyHuxurious (GallifreyanOmnishambles)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Abuse of Market Research, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Boredom, Broken Bones, Comedy, Criminal Masterminds, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Espionage, Expect It To Get Sillier, Fighter Kylo Ren, Heist, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Implied Sexual Content, Injury Recovery, Loneliness, M/M, Mixed Martial Arts, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Online Relationship, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Voyeurism, Webcams, this is a very silly fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-19 20:50:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14245482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyanOmnishambles/pseuds/GenerallyHuxurious
Summary: For the last few years Kylo Ren has been supplementing his income by taking part in paid market research panels. Usually this involves nothing more strenuous than answering a lot of repetitive online surveys. When he finds himself temporarily unable to work through no fault of his own - thanks Rey! - he throws himself into taking as many surveys as he can. One particular company keeps sending him the strangest questions though...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a true story... or at least based on the genuinely bizarre survey questions I sometimes encounter online...

**_“Good morning, good morning, good morning!! we’re live at five with the traffic…”_ **

Kylo kicked sleepily out toward the source of the unwelcome noise. 

His foot connected with the radio alarm clock, silencing the over enthusiastic host and sending the radio itself tumbling to the floor. He barely noticed the crunch of breaking plastic over the sound of his own screaming at the searing pain in his ankle.

What the fuck?!

He kicked at the tangle of blankets with his other leg, eager to get free, but also suddenly aware thanks to the jostling that his head was clanging with a headache even worse than his usual hangovers. 

For all his thrashing he didn’t make much actual progress, but he did discover that there was something heavy wrapped around his foot. So he tried to kick that away instead. This time he hissed in pain. Whatever it was it wasn’t moving and shoving on it hurt like hell. 

What the fuck was going on?

Giving up on kicking himself free, Kylo reluctantly sat up and pulled the blankets off the bed with his hands. 

There was a bright purple cast on his foot.

Someone had drawn a cheery smiley face on it.

Oh god, what had happened last night? 

Where was his phone? Maybe yesterday’s Kylo had left him some clues… 

He scrubbed at his eyes, confused about why he couldn’t see properly until his brain slowly realised that the sun probably hadn’t risen outside yet. As usual his curtains weren’t closed properly, so there was a wedge of misty predawn light falling over his bed, but the rest of the room was still hidden in shadows.

They must have given him really good painkillers if he was genuinely confused about being unable to see in the dark.

Who had given him painkillers?

He need to throw some light on the situation.

Hah. Literally.

He clapped, then grinned to himself in childish glee when the lamp on his desk came on automatically. One of the best purchases of his adult life. He had always wanted one of these as a kid and he was certain he’d never get tired of it, whatever Leia had insisted when he was seven.

At least the light didn’t make his headache any worse.

His phone was on his desk, under a large white paper pharmacy bag, several medals, and trophy.

Oh shit, had he actually won last night? He vaguely thought that he had. He remembered being lifted up on to someone’s shoulders, though if he’d broken his foot in the fight he’d have been lifted up anyway…

He glared at his phone. Nothing happened. He raised his hand toward his phone. Nothing happened. So he still hadn’t developed telekinesis then. That sucked.

Could he stand up with this thing on his leg? It wasn’t far- three steps at the most. 

Biting his lip at the thought of any further pain, but too curious and desperate to pee to stay in bed, he carefully swung his legs over the edge of the mattress toward the floor. It seemed as if the manoeuvre was going to be successful until he yelped like a startled dog when his unencased foot touched something cold.

There were crutches on the floor by his bed.

Well, that answered that question then.

Retrieving the crutches was a lengthy and undignified process but once he had them it was easy enough to get to his phone.

The battery was dead. 

Fantastic.

There were no pockets in his boxers and he felt far too shitty to get dressed, so he just held the handset between his teeth as he swung himself in the direction of the kitchen. 

He actually wasn’t too bad on crutches. A childhood accident in one of Han’s vintage planes- and the A+ parenting that led to a two day delay in treatment- had seen him spend most of a semester on crutches. He’d learned to do flips on them within a week. 

Maybe when he was feeling more human he’d try that again.

Coffee would help with that. Coffee and access to the phone charger beside the coffee machine because that’s where he spent most of his waking hours when he was at home. 

Technically, Kylo had three jobs- doorman at the local metal bar, mixed martial arts trainer, and life model at the art school on the other side of the city- but he spent a good four hours a day on his laptop, earning pocket money. Given the state of his leg, it looked like he going to have to spend a lot more time supplementing the other jobs he probably wouldn’t be able to do.

While his phone gave the startup chirrup and the coffee maker did its thing all he could do was rest his head on the counter and groan. He groaned again. It didn’t help much.

Fuck, money was going to be tight for a while. 

He shouldn’t be so pessimistic. He had not idea what had happened to his leg.

Maybe it wasn’t that bad.

Or maybe he’d never work again. Well, the life modelling work would probably be okay, he didn’t need to be able to stand on one leg to take his clothes off. And he could probably still work as a trainer- didn’t a lot of older fighters go into training when they… couldn’t compete anymore… fuck...

This time the groan was loud and heartfelt. It still didn’t help. 

Even through the tangled waves of hair covering his face, Kylo still noticed the bright blue light that signified his phone finally being ready to use. 

Without looking at the screen as he unlocked it Kylo dialled Phasma.

She answered after five rings but only for long enough to shout, “It’s 5:15 in the fucking morning, you prick!!”

His favourite sparring partner hung up before Kylo had even drawn a breath to respond.

He really needed that coffee.

* * *

Armitage sat with his head in his hands and despair in his heart while his assistant wittered on about the latest business forecasts.

He was, in a word, bored. In several words, he was bored, lonely, angry, sexually frustrated, and severely under caffeinated. 

Right now there was a solution to only one of these issues available to him right now and even that was being hindered by Dopheld’s habit of gesticulating with the coffee pot rather than actually pouring him a goddamn drink. 

“Of course, we have the new medical research contracts almost finalised,” Dopheld was saying without a single pause for breath in which Hux could either ask for a coffee or safely snatch it from him. “We just need legal to look over the indemnities, we don’t want to end up liable for side effects again! We just find the patients, we don’t make the meds! I don’t even know how they managed to slip that clause in there last time. And the latest round of children’s snack food surveys are going well…”

Unable to take the noise and the thirst anymore Armitage just stood, walked silently around the desk to stand behind Dopheld’s chair while he stared obliviously at his paper, and slipped an arm around his throat.

The noise his assistant made when he stopped talking would probably be best described as ‘meep’. Dopheld froze instantly, his body as still as humanly possible except for the hammering of his heart and the fast series of gulps that Armitage could feel through the sleeve of his suit.

“Thank you.” Armitage murmured smoothly against Dopheld’s ear as he lifted the coffee pot from his hands. He might have been stuck behind a desk for the last five years, but he still had it.

“HUX!!” The intercom roared at a volume that made both men jump. 

The coffee sloshed out of the pot in a tragic scalding wave.

Fortunately most of it splashed over Dopheld’s chest, but there was some collateral splash damage to the front of Armitage’s Paul Smith blazer. Now there was dry cleaning to think about too.

“For fucks sake,” he sighed, abandoning the coffee pot on the edge of his desk to head towards the gents in the hope of cleaning up before anything dried in the fabric. “Tell Snoke I’ll be five minutes.”

Dopheld made only a sad noise in response. 

Perhaps Armitage didn’t still have it after all.

* * *

Kylo sat at his tiny dining table with his laptop open to wikipedia and the contents of the pharmacy bag scattered across the keyboard.

He should probably have started off looking there rather than calling Phasma at Stupid O’Clock in the morning, but in his defence he hadn’t exactly been well enough to think straight.

Coffee and some of the bag’s contents had helped the state of his brain but he still hadn’t got much further in working out what the fuck was going on.

Someone had included an spectacularly useless booklet entitled Ankle Fracture: Orthopaedic Patient Information Leaflet in the bag. It was about as generalised as it was possible to be whilst also providing very little helpful information. According to the booklet he’d probably broken one or more bones in his ankle, he may or may not need surgery, and the clinical outcomes were as varied as the day was long. 

There was also a collection of scribbles across the front of the booklet that at first he’d mistaken for someone testing a pen, but once the coffee started to kick in he realised it was actually really bad handwriting. 

A few minutes of googling best guesses had brought him to an article about ‘medial malleolus fractures’ which meant a break in the end of his tibia. 

Since he was at home they probably didn’t want to operate, but the crutches and cast probably meant he should stay off it for a while. One of the scrawls might have said ‘5 weeks’ but it also might have said ‘swears’. Not very helpful.

Either way he had a bag stuffed with a few mild opioid painkillers and a lot of paracetamol. Fortunately the dosage instructions for those had been printed by a computer so he didn’t have to guess and risk killing himself. 

Thank god he’d paid the healthcare surcharge so he wouldn’t be facing some giant bill from the NHS in the next few weeks. At least that was one, possibly the only, monetary worry that he didn’t have to face.

He jumped a little in his chair as a key grated into the front door lock.

No one else had a key to this place except the landlord’s agent and she really didn’t care enough to visit. 

Besides, it was only just 6:30am, who the hell was going to visit him this early?

Thin tendrils of paranoia took hold as his mind. 

His mother had political enemies, his father just had enemies, would anyone still target him halfway across the world and living under another name? He remembered the insane lengths some of the cranks had gone to when he was a child and his heart leapt a little. 

Kylo had his broken leg up on the empty chair on the other side of the table. There was no way he could get up and get to the door before…

Phasma walked in juggling a huge greasy looking bag of McDonalds and two coffees.

“You’re a goddess,” he sighed as the heavenly scent of hot fat and salt filled the air. He felt like his muscles were melting with relief. “Holy shit, you’re perfect.”

He hadn’t even realised he was hungry, but now his stomach seemed ready to claw its way out between his abs if he didn’t get to eat immediately.

Phasma grimaced as she passed him the coffees and took the laptop over to the counter to make space for the food. 

“Don’t thank me, thank Rey- she paid for all this,” she paused and corrected herself. “Actually do thank me, since I’m the one who actually made it out of the flat. Little Miss Fight-’Em-All still had her head down the bog when I left.”

Kylo made a sympathetic face. Rey never could hold her drink. “Does she even know she paid?”

He looked up at Phasma and finally realised she was just standing beside the table even though there was food for two… oh, yeah. 

He moved his foot off the only other chair in the room.

“Nope, but she probably won’t notice I took her wallet either.” Phasma shrugged and dropped into the chair. She looked almost as bad as he felt. There was still shiny bits of confetti tangled into her hair.  “Anyway, it’s the least she could do for you.”

“What? Why?”

Phasma pointed at her mouth, which she’d somehow managed to cram most of a bacon and egg McMuffin into, and then pointed at his leg. 

Kylo was suddenly very aware that he was still only in his boxer shorts. Then he realised that Phasma was probably the one who had stripped him down in the first place. He blushed.

“No, you idiot, she broke your foot!” She mumbled behind her hand. 

“Oh.” That was an interesting development. “How?” 

“You seriously don’t remember? Is _ that  _ why you called me?” She sounded stunned. “There was an ambulance and everything! You tried to give a paramedic your phone number with your mind! Everytime we hit a pothole you insisted everything was moving because you had telekinetic powers! They wouldn’t believe us that you hadn’t taken anything illegal!”

* * *

Kylo had won the regional amateur title. He’d finally fucking won this time.

Not that he’d ever actually  _ lost  _ during the previous years, he’d just… gotten carried away behind the scenes… and then been banned from competing. 

Of course, Kylo still maintained that that pretentious fucker dressed all in red had deserved the headbutt, but rules were rules.

He wasn’t allowed to fight in the changing rooms and he wasn’t allowed to fight outside his weight class. 

This year he’d kept it together, no matter how sorely tempted he was to lash out at the taunting of his competitors, and he had won.

“Light Heavyweight Amateur Champion of the North East,” he said into his pint glass in amazement. He might have said it a few dozen times since they’d rolled into the bar, but the best thing that had happened to him since he’d dropped out of university deserved repeating. 

Across from him Rey snorted. 

She was sitting on Phasma’s lap holding an entire pitcher of Sex on the Beach and wearing her own winner’s belt like a bandoleer across her torso. It was their third pitcher, and Kylo was pretty such Phasma’s hand was under Rey’s top, but he chose not to think about it. 

It sucked that he had no one to take home and celebrate with, but the night was still young- someone would be impressed by his muscles or his strength eventually.

“Light heavyweight!” Rey snorted again and then giggled. “They cancel each other out so you’re just a ‘weight’!!” She laughed at her own joke again. The laughter turned into hiccups.

“You’re the fucking strawwieght champion, Rey! You don’t get to laugh at anyone else’s title!”

Phasma shrugged. “I dunno, ‘flyweight’ makes me laugh. I’m always expecting Jeff Goldblum to show up.”

They ignored her.

“Weight classes are bullshit anyway,” Rey said, sitting up and leaning towards him with a sudden predatory look. “It should just be a free for all. Phasma could kick your ass in an official fight.”

He should have felt offended but honestly that was just accurate. She was a super middleweight and two inches taller than him. She kicked his ass on a weekly basis.

Rey poked him in the chest. “ _ I _ could kick your ass.” Poke.

“No, you couldn’t.”

Poke. “Fucking fight me.” Poke.

He took a deep breath and started counting in his head. 

“Rey, you’re shitfaced and nearly half my weight.” He said as calmly as he could. “Besides, Luke would kill me.” 

They weren’t related by blood, at least Kylo didn’t think they were, but his uncle had been her legal guardian as a kid and was now sponsoring her university education. Kylo was already enough of an outcast without kicking his almost-cousin’s ass as well. 

She was still poking him. 

“Stop it!” 

“No! Fight me!!” 

The next poke was more of a jab and Kylo’s temper snapped. He leapt across the table to grab her hand, but Phasma swatted him away.

“Go to the bar. Calm down,” she ordered then turned to her girlfriend. “And you- stop it. Seriously.”

Kylo ground his teeth as he stood at the bar waiting for one of the staff to notice him. Irritation was turning into social anxiety and that just made him angrier. 

He was suddenly fully aware of everything around him and the over stimulation was making his chest ache. He’d brought his trophy with him from the table, half convinced that Rey would do something to it out of whatever weird mood she was in, but now it felt like a pretty dumb thing to do.

Almost immediately he was proven right in that opinion when someone started shouting from the other end of the bar.

“There’s our winner!” The voice was slurred and weirdly modulated like someone was messing with his volume controls. “I won a grand because of him! A shot for a winner! No make that three!”

Kylo only realised the man was really talking about him when three shots of Jagermeister appeared on the bar by his elbow. No one had ever bought him a drink like that before. 

Something told him he should have been pleased but the anxiety only worsened.

Suddenly there was an overly familiar hand on the small of his back.

“Well done, Kylo, drink up.” Instead of the obnoxious drunk he’d been expecting, Kylo was relieved to see Moden Canady, the stocky ex-boxer who owned the gym where Kylo taught at weekends. 

Kylo didn’t really want to drink any Jagermeister, let alone three, but his mood was still pretty dark and at least ‘talking to my boss’ was a good excuse for keeping away from the table for a while.

“There’s more where that came from,” added Edrison, Moden’s business partner and possibly boyfriend. “You’ve made a lot of people very happy. Perhaps we can find a way to make even more people happy…”

When Edrison placed his hand just above Moden’s on Kylo’s back this whole thing seemed like a bad decision, but they talked about his prowess in the ring until his ego’s unquenchable need for validation drowned out the alarm bells. 

They seemed to be talking about some kind of fighting league- not quite professional but not entirely amateur either. 

He couldn’t really follow the thread of the conversation, but the shots kept coming so he kept listening.

Kylo lost count after the seventh shot. It was only when Phasma appeared at his shoulder and hauled him away ‘to go some place we can dance’ that he realised that the bartop where he’d been standing was covered in empty glasses.

He also noticed that Moden didn’t look all that happy at his abrupt departure just before the man turned back to the bar, while Edrison just watched him go with a strange look on his face.

The cold air outside the bar woke Kylo up a little, and cleared some of the fog that had started to descend with the spirits. Sadly the effect wasn’t enough for him to spot the figure waiting in the shadows with a mischievous grin on her face until it was too late.

Rey leapt at him with a laugh that turned into something of a scream when Kylo turned too fast and tumbled over the bar’s A-board sign standing at the edge of the pavement. 

She tried to change course but there was too much momentum.

Kylo fell into the street with the sign closing around his ankle like an oversized mousetrap and Rey as the spring that shut it. 

The half hour after that remained a blur of panicked shouting and apologies. 

Some part of the sign’s mechanism had twisted so that it couldn’t opened again. The ambulance crew feared a really serious break as a result. There was even talk of calling in the fire brigade for help, but in the end Kylo was loaded up with morphine and hauled off to hospital with the whole thing still attached to his leg.

The morphine hadn’t sat well on all the extra alcohol Phasma hadn’t realised he’d drunk, but at least the break hadn’t been nearly as bad as they’d suspected. Not that Kylo understood that once the drugs were in his system.

Plaster was applied to his leg, things he had no hope of remembering had been explained to him, and Phasma had poured him into taxi to take him home. 

* * *

Of course Kylo didn’t remember all of this immediately.

Phasma gave him the condensed version, mostly focusing of Rey’s remorse and how difficult it had been to get Kylo into his fourth floor apartment when he weighed several metric tons.

There had been a speech about how he should put his sex toys away in case anyone ever had to rescue him again, followed by a run down on the proper operation of his washing machine. 

She was about to launch into a discussion of his position vis-a-vis cleaning when he leaned across the table. The hug was awkward but sincere. 

“Thank you.” He said against her shoulder. “Really. But I’m gonna live how I want.”

He felt her repress a laugh as she said, “Okay, but I’m not hauling your arse up here again.”

“Why? There’s nothing left that you haven’t seen before now.” He waggled his eyebrows and got a balled up hashbrown wrapper to the face for his troubles. 

“Fuck you…” She chuckled a little but her expression still turned serious. “So, what now? What are you going to do?” 

Kylo rubbed at the stubble just barely emerging from his chin and thought for a moment. 

“Well, I’m going to wait until a they’re likely to be awake and then ring my bosses. Maybe there’s something I can do without standing to much. I dunno. I’ll survive.” 

If he didn’t sound hopeful that was just because he wasn’t. But what else could he do?

Phasma stood and gathered up the mess of wrappers strewn across the table. “Are you ok for food? If you need help, me or Rey can get some things in for you until you can go out on your own.”

“You don’t have to…”

“Dude, she broke your leg.”

Okay, he couldn’t really argue with that. 

* * *

Armitage stared at a spot on the bookshelves behind Snoke’s desk and willed the meeting to end.

When he’d first started working for Snoke- so many years ago that he hadn’t even legally been an adult- Armitage had thought that the private penthouse suite was the height of luxury. Now he’d had enough life experience to realise that it was all, just, well… _ tacky _ .

Even if it were possible to ignore the Eighties high gloss black and red decor, the overall impression of seediness really wasn’t helped by the way Snoke had let go of himself in the last few years. 

Age was a terrible thing but someone as powerful as Snoke really should have more dignity. There had been a time when Snoke would never have dreamed of being seen in anything less than Armani suit custom tailored to account for his unusual height. 

Now he seemed to be conducting this meeting in a gold Versace dressing gown that barely covered his legs.

At least Armitage knew the old man’s habits well enough to keep his eyes up when he first entered the room. There wasn’t enough money in the world to make him risk knowing whether or not Snoke was wearing trousers this time.

“I’m pleased with the progress of our operation so far this year,” Snoke was saying. As he paused Armitage could almost hear the incoming ‘but’ before it even left the CEO’s lips. “But it’s time we went back to our core competencies.”

It took an amazing effort of will for Armitage not to roll his eyes. What other core competencies could they have possibly drifted away from?

First Order Market Research was the single finest data analytics firm on the planet. 

They’d cornered every conceivable aspect of research from daytime television audience analysis to cutting edge medical testing, and everything in between. Brands relied on them to develop their new products and governments relied on them to keep the peace.

They knew what the public thought long before the politicians and they had the ear of anyone of any note. 

What else was there to do?

“There will be a new… Project for you, General,” Snoke said with an audible smirk when Armitage shivered where he stood.

He hadn’t heard that title in five years. To be the General again. Yes. And a Project. Oh. YES.

“A Project, Sir?” Armitage asked just to hear the words in his own voice and thus make the situation real. Adrenaline was flooding his system and drowning out any reservations he might have about anything else that was about to happen.

“It’s going to be rather complex, General, so you’ll need to take your time gathering your team,” Snoke continued. “There will, of course, be several stages so the budget will be broad enough to allow for multiple specialists, but I am hoping you can find us some new permanent contractors. Now, here is the list of targets. And the final objective.”

The paper Snoke passed to him contained the names of several prominent ministers in half a dozen countries, a number of media moguls, and more than one minor Royal. 

The ‘final objective’ was oddly incomprehensible, but Armitage had never really cared for the outcome. It was the process he’d always lived for.

With an considerable effort from muscles that had grown unused to the task, he smiled. 

“Of course, Supreme Leader.” 

* * *

Alone at last, Kylo rubbed his hands together and prepared to start the day. Without the promise of wages from his other jobs he’d just have to rely on what he could get from his usual survey sites. He had quite the collection.

Back in his first year of college Kylo had signed up for every paid experiment panel he could find. 

He’d done psych evaluations, pharmaceutical studies and stress testing; he’d been electrocuted, lied to, sleep deprived and starved; he’d earned a pittance for his efforts but the money had been enough to get away from his parents so over all the pain had be worth it. 

These days he preferred the online option. The surveys could be boring, but they were almost always less painful than whatever the graduate students had usually had in store for him. 

Though there had been that time he’d spent 45 minutes filling in a consumer survey about pre-sliced cheese then hadn’t been paid for his trouble. But that was just psychologically painful, which wasn’t nearly as bad as that testicular tension study he’d done in his second year. Then again he wasn’t entirely sure that study had actually been legitimate, the medical student had paid him cash after all. 

Cash would have been handy right about now.

He couldn’t usually earn a lot of money through this method. Most online studies didn’t pay even close to minimum wage. Normally he care, if he wasn’t actively at work or training why shouldn’t he monetise his free time?

It wasn’t as if he had a boyfriend who might object.

Kylo sighed at that melancholy thought and opened his email.

He was a member of about a dozen online research sites, plus a few academic panels. The latter paid way better, but the opportunities were far more infrequent. 

Since he hadn’t been online yesterday- originally because of the tournament, then because of the booze and the broken leg- he’d built up something of a backlog of survey notifications. 

He scanned through the 32 unread email titles. 

  * Friday Survey - 10 Mins/75 Points
  * Survey Reminder - £0.45 
  * Survey Alert! - New Survey!
  * Study Opportunity - Linguistics & Hollywood Glamour
  * Hi Kylo - You’ve Been Invited To Survey 23445E
  * New We-See Survey - £1.75/20 Minutes
  * First Order - Beverage Survey
  * …..



For the first round Kylo would usually ignore any survey that didn’t list the reward, work through his initial selection in order of value, then go back for the rest in the order that interested him most. 

Regardless of the titles he always went through all of them. Survey panels filled up quickly, especially the ones with the highest rewards, so it wasn’t uncommon to get multiple rejection despite the targeted invite.

As a white male under thirty the competition was pretty steep. Research companies liked diversity and there must be a ton of guys with almost the same profile as him. 

He was slightly suspicious that being gay actually got him a few more hits, even in surveys where his sexuality wasn’t explicitly mentioned. He’d had to fill out a complicated profile for every panel- he wasn’t naive enough to think that his personal details weren’t being passed along to along to any company that cared to ask for them. 

He sighed when he realised the first survey had already closed. 

The next was a drawn out questionnaire about football that he answered to the best of his abilities. He’d had a boyfriend who enjoyed soccer once, he could wing it. 

A new shampoo commercial followed, then a survey about chocolate. 

Next Kylo let the webcam on his laptop trace his eye movements while he watched a nature documentary. He only realised he was still shirtless when the survey came to an end. Hopefully they wouldn’t use the pictures for any kind of marketing.

When Kylo clicked back to his email the name ‘First Order’ jumped out at him. 

He loved doing surveys for them. Not because of the actual surveys - they were usually run of the mill -  but because their landing page was so bizarre. It was something of a legend in the industry. Some people said that qualifying for

He was already smiling as he opened the email and clicked through. 

The First Order landing page did not disappoint.

  1. Do you now or have you ever owned a tropical lizard?
  2. Have you obtained a passport in the last six weeks?
  3. Do you go abseiling or spelunking in your spare time?
  4. Can you drive manual as well as automatic?
  5. Have you ever imported fine art?
  6. Did you visit Lichtenstein at any point in the last three months?
  7. Can you lift more than 120lb over your head?



    You have scored _2_/7. You have not qualified to continue...

After thirty seconds the page refreshed. ‘Welcome To Our Monthly Beverage Survey!’ read the cheerful banner. 

Kylo laughed and sipped the cold dregs of his coffee. What a stupid selection of questions! The landing page was always like this, weird questions that no one person would ever be able to say yes to 100%. 

He’d sometimes wondered what would happen if he lied. But sites like this had a habit of booting people for falsifying data, and Kylo couldn’t really risk that right now. 

Of course, he could easily lift that much over his head, and he could drive a manual car, but the closest he’d ever gotten to importing fine art was buying that antique portrait of his grandfather. The artist’s hopeless attempt at minimising his injuries only added to the atmosphere of the painting that was currently glowering at him from the hallway.

Still, who went to Lichtenstein of all places?

And what did spelunking have to do with anything?

Kylo shook his head to clear his mind of stupid questions and moved on to the real survey. This month it was about tea. It would only earn him 75p, but at least it was money.

* * *

Hands clasped tightly behind his back Armitage glared at the map of Liechtenstein in consternation.

“Is this it?!” He asked the room at large. Only Dopheld looked at him. 

“Yes, Sir. It only has an area of 62 miles.” He sounded surprised. 

Perhaps Armitage was the only person in the world who hadn’t known that. Given that the rest of the room was refusing to meet his eye that seemed more than likely. 

Always loyal to a fault Dopheld tried to help. “Did you need detailed charts of the surrounding countries as well?”

No, he didn’t need them. But the massive operations table did look empty with just one tiny map in the middle of it. Armitage was almost tempted to ask for them, just for the aesthetic, but in the end he decided to pretend he hadn’t said anything. 

“Where is the cave system?”  Armitage asked imperiously instead. 

This was going to be a delicate enterprise, he could not afford to focus on his own discomfort when there was so much on the line. 

Not that anyone could tell when the first stage of the heist of the century involved stealing a rare lizard from a literal underground lair. 

Snoke had said this job was going to be like nothing they’d ever done before, but this might be going a little too far.


	2. Chapter 2

Armitage sprawled out across his sofa in his pyjamas and tried to take stock of the day. While he tried to do that the half bottle of gin currently flooding his bloodstream peered around the room, judging his home of the last five years with a critical eye. 

His flat was nice, in a lonely, early-nineties sci-fi kind of way. Everything was brushed steel and pale blue accents like some kind of marine-based supervillain’s lair. 

He’d almost sprung for an gorgeous tank full of jellyfish along the east wall, but that had felt like a step too far. If he did that it’d a short slippery slope to glittery mermaid print leggings and a seashell accents. That just wouldn’t do- he looked like shit in pastel blue.

He tried to open his phone camera to check how he looked against the couch, but on the second attempted he dropped the damn thing directly onto his face, so he gave up. Which is what he should probably do to the gin too- give up. At least for tonight. 

Did it really matter? There was no one else here, just like every other night of his life.

Apparently the gin had a lot of opinions about his life. He wasn’t sure he liked the gin. His stomach agreed and offered to evict it, but Armitage Hux wasn’t a quitter. No man with this much pale decor in a job like his could ever be classed as a quitter.

Not that he’d done any real ‘work’ while he’d lived here. 

The gin called him a pencil pusher. He ignored it.  

Instead he stared at the ceiling and contemplated the distance to his bed. 

Could he sleep here? Probably.

Would he regret it in the morning? Absolutely.

He should go to bed immediately.

Decision made Armitage grabbed his laptop, settled more firmly into the couch, and tried to balance the device on his knee. 

The laptop immediately tumbled towards the tiles. 

Muscles trained over decades for speed, but not actually exercised in the last six months, had Armitage diving off the couch to catch the couch before he realised what a bad idea that would be.

Fortunately for the laptop he broke its fall. Unfortunately for his hand he did so by making his palm the cushion between the sharp heavy corner of the laptop and the mostly concrete floor. 

Something went crunch, but he wouldn’t notice  _ that _ until the morning.

Oddly flustered despite being alone in the room Armitage elected to stay on the floor while he got the laptop seated properly across his knees this time. A few misremembered passwords, the usual argument with the ‘intelligent’ file organisation system, and he was looking at the latest batch of candidates.

The Lichtenstein mission had gone well. The team had done everything they needed to do precisely when they’d needed to do it. The ridiculous lizard was safely in storage, and it was time to focus on the next stage.

So he really shouldn’t have allowed Dopheld take the entire local team to the pub. He definitely should not have gone with then, nor should he have let them buy rounds of shots. 

At least he’d left before that giant idiot Matt proposed doing bodyshots. He hadn’t mentioned it by the time Armitage had left, but it always came up. The man was immune to keeping his shirt on.

Speaking of which. 

Armitage had clicked on one of the more promising candidates and come face-to-face with a screen full of chest. Distinctly male chest which was a relief.

Bloody hell this guy must work out eight hours a day and eat two dozen eggs for breakfast.

Fighting valiantly against the grip of the gin Armitage’s cock gave a twitch of interest before the alcohol dragged it down again.

In the video the candidate sat back and wriggled about in his seat just like almost everyone taking this test. The idea was to get your eyes within a specific area of the screen but most people seemed to focus more on minimising the double chin effect. In a way it was like accidentally opening the selfie camera on a mobile phone. 

What he meant was that the angle wasn’t flattering. 

For a second Armitage wondered if the camera was faulty, but as he watched it became clear that the man’s jaw really was that uneven, and he really was dusted with moles… they even continued down onto that lovely chest…

He wondered if he’d get to see exactly how far they went.

He wasn’t a creep - well, he more slightly  _ was _ \- but it wasn’t as if the candidate hadn’t submitted this tape to the survey of his own free will.

Expression tracking surveys were always a minefield. The public often forgot the scope of the camera, and it was usually the elderly who did this kind of survey in a level of undress that frankly his employees shouldn’t have to see.

The gin interjected then that Armitage should save this video to his own drive and delete it from the server so that no one else was unwittingly subjected to that chest.

Casually, as if the empty room might judge him, Armitage fast forwarded through the recording just to check, but the candidate never stood up. He saved it to his own private drive anyway - for research - but he left the original untouched.

A quick scan through the candidate’s other results showed excellent but not quite perfect scores, but no other video content. 

For the sake of research he tweaked the settings on the man’s accounts. Now First Order Research would offer him more camera based interactions at a higher rate of pay than normal. It was amazing what an extra 50p would do for motivation.  

Armitage felt that it was very important that he get more footage of this particular candidate. 

He wasn’t sure why, but the gin told him it was true.

* * *

Day two and Kylo was already struggling with his new found captivity.

Things had started of well enough. 

He’d managed a shower, complete with a sexy plastic bag taped over his cast; then he’d cooked an indulgent but healthy breakfast which was a rare treat for him; and finally he’d sat down at the tiny kitchen table with coffee to formulate the best possible plan of attack.

Predicting how many surveys would become available each day was difficult, but he’d done enough of these things to have worked out a pretty good approach. 

One of the survey sites- Mos Eisley Research - would send out exponentially more surveys if they were completed quickly enough, while MilFalc Studies would start offering garbage in response to fast completes. So it was better to prioritise the former of over the latter.

Academic surveys filled up faster but paid better so there was a benefit in keeping that window open and refreshing it every few minutes to makes sure he didn’t miss any of those. Lifestyle surveys were time sucks, but product surveys were a godsend…

After fifteen minutes he had a chart covered in circles and arrows and rank tables with half the details crossed out… it was a disaster.

The whole thing was illegible. 

Kylo was probably only a few minutes off getting the string out of his tool box and making one of those mad-scientist charts across the walls. This was just surveys, man! Who could possibly care this much about surveys?! 

He was losing his mind already and he hadn’t even started. 

Thoroughly annoyed with himself for wasting valuable earning time Kylo turned back to his inbox and the method that had always benefited him most- go for the money.

He selected a brand awareness survey for Watto Marketing that was offering him a £2 reward for seven minutes of work.  

Two dozen insurance brand names appeared on screen. A dull subject but £2 was £2.

‘Which if these brands have you ever heard of?’ the screen asked.

He selected the relevant ones.

‘Which have you personally bought?’

He answered. 

‘Which of these brands do you have a positive opinion of?’

The list hadn’t changed. It still included brands he’d just said he hadn’t heard of. Most of them he simply didn’t give a shit about. He selected the two that he liked the most.

‘Which of these brands do you have a negative opinion of?’

Kylo had never given it any thought. Well some of them had really annoying adverts that played all morning between the chat shows that the middle aged women at the gym preferred to watch. He selected those.

‘Which of these brands would you be ashamed to work for?’

What?

‘Which of these brands would you be embarrassed for a friend if they worked there?’

In this economy? Kylo didn’t even know where most of his friends worked unless he worked  _ with _ them. He’d known Phasma since he first arrived in the UK and he had no idea of even the kind of work she did now that she’d got her Masters. 

The next stage of the survey was to rate half a dozen companies out of five, but he’d never heard of half of them and ‘I don’t know’ wasn’t an option. 

Kylo could feel his blood pressure rising but the survey must be close to finishing now. It was only estimated at seven minutes. He just needed to get past the demographic info...

The names of two dozen car manufacturers appeared on screen.

‘Which of these brands have you heard any positive information about in the last week?’

He groaned in frustration. He didn’t even  _ have _ a car in this country. 

Gritting his teeth Kylo answered as best he could. 

Two dozen chocolate bar brands appeared on the screen.

“For fucks sake!”

He got half through answering inane questions about candy when the screen suddenly changed to an animated loading screen.

“We’re sorry but you haven’t qualified for this survey at this time.”

Kylo threw his mug at the wall. 

* * *

The office was blessedly quiet and surprisingly productive.

Armitage had honestly been amazed that everyone made it in this morning. Dopheld might have had a hand in that. 

His quiet little assistant had certainly been the only reason he’d managed to get into the office looking more than vaguely human. 

The gin had tucked him up to sleep on the floor against his couch with his laptop cradled against his chest like a testament to Armitage’s lack of work/life balance. If it hadn’t be for the courier Dopheld had sent with two extra large extra-strong teas and a bag of pastries Armitage would probably still be laying there now.

It wouldn’t have surprised him if Dopheld had arranged similar assistance for the rest of the team. He really should look at getting the man another raise. In truth of fact Dopheld was long since due a promotion, but then Armitage would have to get another assistant.

A peevish voice speaking from four inches behind his left ear broke his chain of thought. 

“Hux, Sir, I’m not really sure how to formulate this question.”

Armitage turned to see the unexpected and preternaturally young face of their infiltration expert. Day to day Thanisson filled the role of Snoke’s overpaid intern, but he’d originally joined the organisation thanks to his skills at getting into small and very secure spaces. 

Unfortunately those extended to being able to sneak up on every member of staff except Snoke and Matt - Snoke because the man killed anyone who approached him unannounced and Matt because he seemed to be attuned to the smaller man’s scent- but either way Armitage was not one of the lucky few. 

At least he hadn’t be drinking a coffee this time. Last month he’d ended up with coffee smell in his sinuses for days after Thanisson snuck up on him in the cafeteria.

Willing his heart rate to relax Armitage looked at the proffered folder. 

“Are we sure we don’t have anyone who can do this?” He asked, already pretty certain of the answer. 

“No, Sir. Finn isn’t with us any more, Sir.” 

The look of disgust on Thannison’s face probably echoed the look on Armitage’s own, but they were both too professional to actually give voice to their opinions of the ‘traitor’ in front of someone of a different rank. 

Given how urgently they needed these particular skills the team had probably cursed Finn to the moon and back amongst themselves already. God knows Armitage had cursed him enough when he quit.

Armitage silently gave thanks to the Legal Department for their watertight non-compete clauses. For a while he’d felt sure he’d have to have Finn killed, and that would just be a waste of an excellent asset that might be lured back one day.

Hmm. That was a point.

“Did you call him?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And?”

“I really rather not repeat that kind of language, Sir.” Thannison said after a judicious pause. “But it was definitely a no.”

Well it had been worth asking. 

Staring at the sheet of paper on his desk with his temples resting against his hands Armitage tried to block out the room and focus on the problem at hand. 

They couldn’t ask for ex-military, not specifically. That was always too obvious and it got flagged up by too many automatic data scanning systems. The last thing they needed right now was to end up on some kind of government watch list. Besides, military men tended not to be light on their feet unless they were specialists.

“Okay,” he said just as Thanisson started shifting nervously from foot to foot. “Okay, don’t use one question. Ask for reenactment experience, hand-to-hand combat training, and circus skills. Check anyone who answers with at least two out of the three. You’ll probably have to filter out a few jugglers.”

Thannison gave him a look that suggested a suspicion that his boss had gone mad, but he was too well trained to question him. He just made a note of the suggestions and left the room as quietly as he’d arrived. 

* * *

Kylo’s day was not improving.

He’d binge watched seven episodes of Hannibal, answered a dozen boring surveys, and had a wank, but it was still only two in the afternoon. 

Goddamn his running schedule for habitually waking him at 6am. His uncle would laugh himself sick if he ever found out that as an adult Kylo could actually keep up with his training to the point of waking up before his alarm. 

Kylo sighed as he thought longingly of the days when he slept until noon.

As much as his leg ached this was still a heaven sent opportunity to catch on some much needed sleep. He should take full advantage of it.

He stared at the ceiling and willed himself to fall asleep. 

Nothing happened. 

Everything was boring.

He could just jack it again.

No, he didn’t feel like that either. Even his own hand was boring.

In the next room his laptop gave the annoying little chime that signalled the arrival of a new email. As he turned his head in that direction Kylo noticed the pull up bar still attached the kitchen doorway.

Now that was an idea. Kylo had thought there wasn’t much he could do at home beyond dumbbells and yoga, but he had been meaning to work on his pull ups for a while now.

He tottered back through to the kitchen on one crutch and peered at the latest email. 

“First Order Research is inviting you to take part in an online test audience for two new television programmes. If you choose to accept this invitation blah blah blah usual non-disclosure clause blah blah blah do not record or copy blah blah... holy shit!” 

Kylo stopped reading aloud to rub his eyes, just in case he was hallucinating. The numbers on the screen stayed the same.

“There will be six sessions in total to complete this survey. Provided all six are completed within 48 hours of beginning the first session will we pay you £240.” 

That was nearly half a month’s rent. 

Here he was filling in stupid thirty minute questionnaires about laundry detergent for £1.20 when there were surveys paying that much? Why had he never seen them before? 

He scratched at his hair. Maybe he had fallen asleep and now he was so stressed he was dreaming about surveys. He pulled his hair to test that theory. No, it hurt so he was awake.

What was the highest paying thing he’d ever done on any of these sites?

After a minute of thought he decided it was probably the anger management self-help book study for the local university. He’d been paid £25 to read a terrible book that had done nothing to help his temper, but at least then he’d been able to sell it on eBay for nearly £10. 

Okay so £35 was believable, but £240? It seemed suspicious. 

Leaning awkwardly over the laptop Kylo scrolled down.

“To complete this survey you will watch six hour long episodes of two as-yet unnamed dramas. You will need to ensure you will not be interrupted as the episodes cannot be paused. This survey involves the use of your webcam. While you are viewing the episodes we ask that you sit normally in front of your laptop and behave as you usually would whilst watching television. You may not be filmed for the entire length of each episode but we ask that the webcam remain active throughout.”

Ah. That explained it. Six hours of being filmed was a lot to ask of most people. 

Kylo shrugged and clicked the link, he didn’t have anything better to do.

Before the survey could load the latest set of weird questions from First Order Research popped up.

  * Do you hold a private pilot licence?
  * Are you or have you ever been a licenced tree surgeon?
  * Were you born in October?
  * Have you ever engaged in the hobby of historical reenactments?
  * Do you have any metal medical devices inside your body?
  * Have you been on a cruise in the last two years?
  * Do you take part in hand-to-hand combat sports?
  * Have you ever visited the Bahamas? 
  * Are you proficient in circus or aerial skills?
  * Do you own a lawnmower?



Kylo chuckled. Were they looking for a clown who could juggle chainsaws and cut down cherry trees while dressed as George Washington? 

Ignoring the ridiculous thought he selected the pilot’s licence and fighting options just in case it got him an extra survey. 

Of course he hadn’t flown since the last time he saw Poe. He’d mostly drunk away the memory of that break up but he was pretty sure that had been more than two years ago now. So while he had the license his biennial flight review certificate was probably out of date. But they hadn’t actually asked if he could legally fly.

The mouse pointer hovered over the historical reenactment option. 

He had done a lot with that club at the university because he enjoyed running screaming through a field waving a sword - even if the sword was rubber - but they’d made him leave after he single handedly defeated Oliver Cromwell at the Battle of Naseby. That had been a disaster. 

But they probably wouldn’t ask about that. Or see the video evidence on YouTube. It wouldn’t be too embarrassing to answer questions about it. 

He clicked ‘yes’ and then ‘confirm’ to move on.

As the laptop switched to a black screen with the video loading symbol Kylo pulled the chair out to sit down and caught sight of his own reflection. 

The first thing he noticed was that his hair looked fantastic. The tumeric hair mask had definitely done its job. 

The second thing he noticed was that he still hadn’t gotten dressed yet today. 

A countdown appeared on the screen. 

Oh well, whoever assessed the survey would just have to make their peace with the view of his chest. They had said that he should behave as he normally did while watching TV and he did end up watching Netflix in his underpants more often than not. 

He was just living his authentic life. Wasn’t that what they wanted?

* * *

Another long day of planning was done with at last but for once Armitage was feeling invigorated instead of exhausted.

There had been no celebrations today- there’d be at least another week of preparation before the next phase could go into action- but even the daily grind of this kind of task was preferable to the usual monotony of his work. 

He loved a good puzzle and the satisfaction that came with seeing it properly solved.

More than one person in the past had told him that he had the mind of an engineer. Sometimes he wondered how his life would have turned out if his father had ever supported his ambitions. 

If Armitage had been able to stay in school and go to university, would designing aerospace engines present him with problems this challenging? 

Almost certainly he’d never have killed anyone in the process of designing a new jetliner. Probably. 

He definitely wouldn’t be living the life he did now. Most engineers didn’t earn anywhere near the amount Snoke paid him to keep things running smoothly. 

Armitage locked the door, shrugged out of his suit jacket, kicked off his shoes, and stretched. 

At the movement the automated lights finally flickered on to reveal the stark luxury of his empty apartment. 

It was beautiful, chilly, and boring. 

He should get a cat. Something sleek and black so the hair wouldn’t ruin his suit. Cats were always happy to see the person feeding them. That’d be almost like coming home to real affection.

Right now all he was coming home to was air conditioning and a well stocked wine rack. 

He wiggled his toes into the plush carpet, revelling in the chance to be free of his uncomfortable but designer shoes. 

What should he have for dinner tonight? 

Crossing to the kitchen he soon discovered that he’d once again forgotten to go shopping. He could turn around and walk the half a mile to the nearest shop in the rain, or he could order in. 

Of course, he knew which option was the healthiest.

He opened the app to the list of Indian takeaway anyway.

Having order his usual Keralan chicken, samosas, and keema naan from the place just down the street, he pulled a bottle of 2012 Paul Blanck gewürztraminer wine from the rack and moved it to the refrigerator to chill. It wouldn’t be the perfect temperature but he was in a good mood and the floral notes in the wine would really compliment the coconut and coriander in the curry. 

Armitage stared into space for a moment, his mouth already watering at the thought of his meal.

There was a quiet beeping noise from his pocket. 

He’d been home five minutes and work was already interrupting him. At least it was only a text. Texts were rarely all that urgent.

**Thannison:** Possible study candidate, please check email for details. 

Well, he had nothing better to do with his time this evening, and a candidate for this particular job would be very useful at this early stage.

Retrieving his laptop from its resting place under the couch Armitage set it up on the wide marble counter that separated the living room from the kitchen. He could eat and work here once his takeaway arrived without having to worry about staining the furniture. 

Logging in was the usual struggle, but once he got into the system and saw Thannison’s email his heart - and another less dignified part of his anatomy - leapt in excitement. 

It was the candidate from the night before. 

There was no mistaking that uneven jaw or those very, very impressive pecs. What a fantastic bonus that he’d decided to take the bait of the television survey just after selecting the answers they needed. And he had combat and pilot experience. What an absolute gift.

He was perfect, which was why Armitage was watching the latest survey footage in high definition. 

Yes. Because the candidate was so good for the position. 

Not because of that chest. Or those arms. Or the eyes that he could only now see were dark and soulful above that pouting mouth…

He was a professional. He was Hux. He wasn’t distracted by…

The man on the screen stretched wide, muscles bulging with every movement, and Armitage lost the thread of his thoughts. 

A few minutes later his takeaway arrived and he settled down to watch the rest of the video with a glass of wine while he enjoyed his curry. 

It was a little strange to watch someone who was being filmed watching something else. The candidate seemed to be watching Armitage in return. His eyes flickered around the screen with far more interest than most candidates bothered to give to this kind of survey and that made Armitage feel like he was under a microscope. 

His mind kept straying to the thought of seeing that face in real life, of really being subjected to that piercing gaze. 

Would he be able to maintain eye contact or would he get distracted by those lips? 

He really should stop that train of thought, especially if they brought the man on board. It was never good practice to sleep with your employees.

The first hour of viewing ended. Nothing much had happened. The candidate had actually watched the programme. Most people got distracted. He even selected the option to start another episode after a fifteen minute break. 

Armitage watched closely, nibbling on a samosa. 

What would the candidate do with his break? 

Usually people opened a new tab and browsed Facebook or Twitter, unwittingly granting the First Order access to all kinds of personal information. No one ever read the terms and conditions. 

On screen the candidate rose from his chair and moved slowly towards the doorway just behind his seat. 

Perhaps he was taking a toilet break. 

That’d be just Armitage’s luck. He moved the mouse cursor towards the fast forward button, already irritated at the prospect of five minutes without the beautiful… the potentially useful candidate on view, then stopped.

The candidate was just standing in the doorway, with his back turned to the camera and wearing nothing but a very tight pair of red hipster briefs. 

Without a conscious command from his brain Armitage’s hands took a screenshot. 

Wow. 

That was a very good view.

On screen the man reached up to what Armitage had thought was a window above the door and gripped it, revealing that it was actually a pull up bar. 

Oh.

Oh wow. 

Shoulder muscles rippled as the candidate pulled himself up. 

Seen at rest there was a softness to his shape that completely vanished when he flexed. What a broad and powerful back. What stunning thighs.

Armitage zoned out for a second, overcome by the thought of those thighs wrapped around his head.

Wow.

Another pull up and this time the candidate curled his legs up as well.

His arse looked absolutely amazing. 

But why was one of his lower legs purple?

There was no chance of Armitage working it out, not with the constant undulating distraction of all those stunning freckled muscles. He tried to look closer but it was no use. That arse was just too tempting. 

It was only when the man dropped down again and hobbled toward the laptop that Armitage realised the purple was actually a plaster cast.

Fuck. 

Well, the candidate was no use for this phase then. Not with a broken leg. 

Armitage should switch off the video, text Thannison a negative, and go to bed. 

He really should.

On screen the man settled back into his chair. 

It was just going to be more staring intently at the screen. There was no reason for Armitage to watch any more of that.

Just as that thought past through his mind the candidate reached off screen and retrieved… a banana. 

Armitage picked up the laptop and headed for his bedroom.


End file.
